


What You Thought You Had

by PrinceMalachite



Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 07:37:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9113044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceMalachite/pseuds/PrinceMalachite
Summary: In the aftermath of being told that he is a clone of his father, Dib is at a complete loss. Not over his identity, but over the loss of the idea of his mother.





	

_Different._

That was a word Dib had been familiar with for his entire life. Peculiar, distinct, strange- he had been called them all, and so many others. He had known he was different when he asked for a star chart for his sixth birthday, when he had stayed inside during recess, rummaging through the library to find any sort of ghost stories or books on urban legends he could get his hands on, when he slept outside in a tent on a frigid autumn night in an attempt to see if the blood moon would draw out aliens for whatever reason.

Yes, he was certain he knew the meaning of 'different' better than anyone.

Though his room was heated plentifully, he found himself shivering as he sat on his bed, knees embraced to his chest as he dug his fingernails into the black fabric of his jeans, so forcefully it was a wonder he didn't tear them. His breathing was ragged, his brown eyes stained red and streaked with tears, the lenses of his glasses fogged, his head pounding.

The boy found he could scarcely process what he had been told; or rather, what it so blatantly meant.

In a way, he supposed it had been obvious, and he was an idiot for not noticing it sooner.

He could never recall his mother's face, despite how hard he had tried to. His father kept no pictures of her; never spoke her name, and Dib was certain he had never heard the phrase 'your mother' spoken to him. With how often his father's presence was gone from the home, Dib had never had many chances to ask questions about her, and even when he had tried, they were never answered.

It made sense, really. Questions couldn't be answered about someone who never truly existed.

Dib sniffled at the thought, digging his nails more tightly into his pants as he bit his lip, forcing a sob back down into his throat. The more he cried, the worse the headache would be afterward.

With so many blank spaces in his mind, he had filled them in himself over the years.

He had always assumed she would have looked like Gaz; his sister certainly looked nothing like he or his father. She would have resembled Gaz, but at the same time, she would have been unique from her.

Long purple hair and soft, caring eyes with a warm smile; gentle hands that would have held him when he was a baby, that would have caressed his face and dried his tears when he wept. He had imagined being held in her arms when he was tiny and fragile, rocked to sleep in her embrace and protected by her hold, content from the rest of the world. He had wondered if she was able to sing, and if she couldn't, if she had done it anyway to put him and Gaz to sleep when they were young. He wished to know how many times she had told him she loved him, before his memories caught up with him, and she was suddenly gone, unable to speak anymore, clouded in his fantasies once again.

What would she have thought of his obsession with the paranormal? Would she have scorned him for believing in such 'insane nonsense'? Or would she have just been happy, knowing her son had found something he truly, deeply loved doing?

Would she have been proud of what he was today?

He rose from the bed, legs threatening to give way underneath him from the numbness of being held in place for so long. His eyelids were puffy and pink from his gratuitous crying, and he swallowed the mucus that had formed in his throat as he approached his closet at the end of his room. He couldn't recall the last time he had take this out; as of late, he had always either thrown his drawings away or pinned them on his wall.

He weakly pushed open the door, moving his clothes away on the hangers to kneel down inside, observing the numerous paranormal paraphernalia inside. A ouija board he'd only used once on Mother's Day, old star maps and charts of the cosmos, his old magazines detailing supposed Bigfoot and mothman sitings. But he was only in search of one thing.

The small, cardboard box that sat in the corner, collecting dust and keeping his shoes company. Dib reached back for it, gripping its sides and pulling it back into his lap. He gathered it into his arms, climbing to his feet and returning to his bed, setting the box down.

He blew dust off of the top, pulling back the folds to be greeted by his many drawings from over the years. A UFO, a drawing of Bloody Mary, the San Antonio Donkey Lady- one from the more obscure collection of urban legends. 

As he made his way toward the bottom of the box, the dates of the drawings went down, and with it, the quality. What he could only assume was supposed to be a ghost, the obligatory Bigfoot-

He paused when he reached the last drawing in the box. The only one of the bunch that wasn't paranormal at all.

It was dated back to the 1st grade. There was a stick figure of himself, his only notable features being his glasses and scythe-like hair. There was Gaz, smaller than him, uncharacteristically smiling and drawn in purple crayon. On her side was his father, with his lighting bolt hair and his goggles, a triangle over his mouth to mimic his lab coat.

And on the side of Dib's stick figure, holding his hand, was the most detailed of them all. Her eyes were drawn in with amber, a failed attempt at drawing Gaz's hair shape upon her head. She wore a purple triangle for a dress, and her face smiled kindly up at the boy.

He fell back onto the bed, staring into the drawing's face, clutching the paper tightly in his hands.

His voice was raspy as he spoke, "... what would you have thought of me? Would you be embarrassed of me too?" His voice grew softer, "... you wouldn't think I was crazy if you were real, right, mom?"

He stared back at the stick figure, knowing there would be no response, but longing for one regardless.

After a moment, he shakily sighed, letting the paper drop out of his hands. It landed at his feet, the idea of his mother staring back up at him. He nudged it under the bed with his heel, crawling to the head of his bed and allowing his head to fall on to the pillows, leaving the only remnant of her beneath him, sitting along with his old, broken spell drives, and other faded, torn school papers.


End file.
